


gladness akin to rapture

by halflives



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Frankenstein AU, M/M, literature references, lots and lots of touching, the author adores harold finch and wants to explore his complexity, wacky science, will probably add more tags later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:18:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5325386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halflives/pseuds/halflives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I can't imagine what it must be like for you. After all this time, to let go of your creation."</p><p>"The Machine is still sending us numbers, Miss Groves."</p><p>The corners of her mouth tip up, just a little. "I wasn't talking about the Machine."</p><p>Or, in which Harold Finch really decides to play God and makes a man to do his own bidding (and may have accidentally fallen in love with him).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. genesis

Sometimes Nathan gave him this  _look_.

It chilled him, to be perfectly honest. Harold Finch was a genuine person, most of his actions outward and intentional. Creating the Machine was irrevocably the greatest accomplishment he'd ever achieve, and knowing that, he felt... discontented. Of course, there was always room for the Machine to grow, develop, become something new and shiny with each new upgrade -- but Harold felt dusty. He felt like a book about the new age in the generation post, left abandoned for a small child with grimy hands to pick up and fondle with feeble minded excitement.

His discontent, of course, lead him to explore other options. He'd grown up, especially in his tumultuous days at MIT, waving his hands in the air and claiming creating Artificial Intelligence was pointless and impossible -- but then he'd gone and _done it_ , so his hands stayed patiently at his side. Nathan Ingram, a friend at MIT and now a partner on the road to life, was well aware of that fact. Perhaps that's where the  _look_ stemmed from; how Harold had claimed something was impossible all his life, and now he'd done it. Now he'd created what he claimed could never be done.

But this was not the case.

It took Harold a very, very long time, but eventually, he understood. Ironically, it was several days before he stumbled upon Nathan and his irrelevant list for the first time. Nathan was sitting on the luxurious couch of his apartment, nursing his glass of scotch, and watching Harold with aged eyes. It hit Harold like a ton of bricks, so much so that he nearly staggered from his position leaning against the counter.

Nathan gave him that look because he was _God._

It was a look of awe and utmost respect, but above all, _terror_. He'd created something powerful, incredible, _terrifying,_ and Nathan _knew_. Nathan knew Harold had played God and won. Here he stood, the creator of a system that acted akin to humanity itself.

Harold drank the alcohol far too quickly.

And then he was waking up in the white room with the too bright lights and people yelling and _fuck was that Nathan_ \--? No, his eyes were closed, he wasn't giving him that  _look_ , to look of terror and awe and respect and Harold  _seethed._ He couldn't die, not now, not like this, not when Harold hadn't yet to completely make his point on why the irrelevant list was just that, irrelevant. There were so many other arguments, so many other things they should have done, but not now, not ever again...

" _Did you know_?"

The computer beeped. He read the words -- Nathan Ingram. His name had been on the irrelevant list, the Machine had _known_. He could have stopped it, but he didn't listen, he didn't open his mind. Instead he shouted at Nathan, told him to  _stop_ , and never listened. His mind was buzzing and far too loud to let in thoughts from anyone else and it had resulted in the death of his friend. 

His _only_ friend.

Harold wasn't quite sure how he'd come to this conclusion, but he knew from the moment he saw the name on the computer screen he was going to ressurect Nathan Ingram.

For years and years he'd shouted about how AIs could never come to be. If there was an AI that existed, one that he himself had built, why couldn't he take it a step further? Why the hell couldn't he bring a person back to life, a living person, and have them function like they used to?

Harold, unfortunately, learned the hard way that resurrection was not possible. Creation, however, was.

He'd picked apart pieces from different people. Mindset of a soldier. Face the average woman would find attractive. He even thought about giving the man Nathan's eyes, but decided on these piercing blue ones instead. They spoke to him. It was John Reese -- that was the name he'd decided to call his creation. It was simple -- "John", like John Doe, and "Reese", derived from Welsh Rhys -- and to the point. In the back of his mind, Nathan chuckled at him, asking him why the last name wasn't a bird. He'd always been so good at creating aliases out of bird names (to a point in which he wasn't sure which bird name was  _his_ any longer, really).

And then he'd plugged in the plugs and flipped switches and typed away on his main computer until a whirring sound filled the dusty library. He was no longer the book on the shelf, he was the tablet, he was the exciting new invention they used to bring books to life. He was the newest of the new, and here he was, standing over his creation as it jerked, sizzled, and...

...opened its eyes.

John Reese was almost everything Harold Finch had created him to be. Handsome. Limber. Immediately leaping into action at point of creation. Harold pictured Nathan laughing at him, and the sound rung in his eyes. 

Grabbing what was closest to him -- which happened to be a bar of some sort, that had once connected to his machine -- John Reese stepped backward, foot after foot with careful consideration as to where he would step. His mind was going a mile a minute. Harold measured his pleasure to that of a mother staring into the ice blue eyes of her newborn child.

"You are-- I am--" the phrases were broken, not yet formed, and yet Harold understood them perfectly. 

His smile was wide, one that wasn't used very often. He saved it for great discoveries and Grace. "Your name is John Reese. Can you say that?"

"J--" his voice was a rasp. A hollow rasp that echoed through the large room like the whisperings at a funeral. "John Re-reese."

"Very good. And I," he gestured to himself, the other hand pushing up the circular glasses that had fallen to the edge of his nose. Ah, yes, that was better -- a perfect view of the man he'd created. "am Harold Finch."

" _Finch_ ," he said, like the word was forbidden. "Harold."

And then the pipe was against his throat and he was against the wall, arms flailing and half commands forming in his throat. The  _look_ came to mind, the terror, because he'd created something terrifying and here he was, victim to it. If this was how he died -- what would Nathan think?

"Finch," he said, once again, that same vigor hanging in the air. "Goodbye."

And he walked out the front door. 


	2. organic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the creature named John Reese takes his chances in the city.

The world was big and large and the monster named John Reese was rather overwhelmed by it.

There were two things in which he was absolutely certain – he’d just been made not born, and the man named _Finch_ had made him. He wasn’t sure how and he wasn’t sure why, but he knew whatever was organic about him belonged to someone else. There were thoughts floating around in his head that belonged to someone else, eyes, ears, face, _hair_ —John Reese was not one person, but many.

Thinking his own thoughts were easily refreshing.

The man named _Finch_ had put him in the finest – black coat, white button up, expensive shoes that were light but comfortable. Men around him wore the same: ties of varying colors, shouting red faced into their cellular devices as their knuckles whitened on their briefcases. John Reese felt his gaze linger on one man in particular, who’s words were quieter than the others. The man’s teeth ground in his mouth and his steely gaze was lowered to the sideway, each step a stab.

Curiosity – perhaps that’s what this feeling was. Whatever emotion overcame him, it compelled John Reese to turn in the opposite direction and follow the man with the quiet anger.

The man swept through the crowds of people, a byproduct of living in New York City – yes, that was the name of the city that popped into his head when he glanced upward at the overwhelming spiral of buildings around him – and finally came to a stop at the head of a dingy alleyway. Knowing next to nothing of the stereotype, John Reese saw no harm in continuing his trek, natural instinct commanding him to linger just behind the man as he met up with a woman.

The woman was tall, with short blonde hair that swept over her face like the wind and a purple dress that ended just above her kneecaps. She, too, was carrying a briefcase, white knuckled in her hand. “Do you have everything you promised?” she asked, her tone cold despite its laconic brevity.

Across from her, the man looked at her over his thickly framed glasses. It was a sharp look, a look of distain – absent of previous experience with the wiles of men and their _what do you think?_ expressions, John Reese found himself studying the situation more closely to find his answer. His mind, however, drifted; _Finch_ wore glasses. In fact, they looked quite a bit like the ones currently sliding to the end of the man in the suit’s nose. John Reese began to imagine what it would have been like if his creator hadn’t been such a perfectionist and had given him eyes that weren’t as sharp as these. “Of course I do, Melinda,” these succinct exchanges were somehow making John Reese nervous. Perhaps the previous owner of the tingly feeling in his limbs was a detective or a mind reader. “Do you have yours?”

The woman, Melinda apparently, sighed and lifted the briefcase into her cradled arms, flicking open the tabs to reveal a… great deal of money. Benjamins lined both pockets, and the man in the suit’s eyes widened to an impossible level. So, she had made true on her promise, John Reese reasoned. Whatever that promise might be. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Melinda replied, tight despite the joking phrase, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. There was this feeling of utter distaste that hung in the air – why were they being so civil, John Reese wondered, if they hated one another so much?

Tutting beneath his breath, the man in the suit did the same, lifting the briefcase and flicking open the tabs. From his current positon in the side of the alleyway, far enough in it to be away from the crowd but not far enough to see everything that was going on, he could not make out what was inside. However, it must have been precisely what Melinda wanted, because she lit up at the object within and nodded, ceasing her craned neck position so that the man in the suit could shut the case.

“I’m so glad that you’ve been so cooperative, Richard,” Melinda was saying, as the man in the suit shut the case and placed it down by his side so he could fix his tie. A nervous tic, John Reese guessed, by the way his hands shook. “I was afraid you were going to back out like the coward you are.”

Richard screwed up his face and was about to give a very disdainful answer when from behind him came an even taller man in a suit. His expression immediately changed to one of shock as his arms were hooked behind him. In a desperate but futile attempt he squirmed.

John Reese’s heart skipped a beat. He felt the tingling in his limbs increase – perhaps his body wanted to intervene?

Before he could make any real decisions, however, a shadow shifted behind him, and his own arms were pinned behind his back. John Reese struggled, but the handcuffs were biting metal into his wrists before he had a chance to really react, rendering his hand to hand combat useless. With one smart shove, he was sprawled in front of Melinda, Richard and Melinda’s… bodyguards? “Found this bird peeping just out of sight,” the brute that had cuffed him reported, a hint of condensing in his voice. “What do you suggest I do with him?”

Melinda eyed him – it was strange to have the person he’d just been watching from afar make direct contact with him. Perhaps the person who owned some of his body parts before him ran stakeouts, never interfering. Should he have? Should he have just walked away, and let whatever was about to happen take its natural course? “Nothing, for the moment,” she replied, voice as sharp as a knife’s edge, turning her attention back to the horrified Richard, who’s gaze had never left her perfectly procured cheekbones. “I’ll deal with him later. But first… Richard.”

Richard swallowed so hard that even pressed against the cold stone of the street, John Reese could hear it as loud as one could hear a cannon.

Slowly, Melinda reached forward, taking the briefcase that had fallen from Richard’s now bound hands and placing it next to hers. “Unfortunately, you won’t be getting paid for these explosives,” – oh _fuck_ , so that’s what they were. “But I don’t think money is your, shall we say, biggest worry at the moment.”

Richard studied her face, trying to figure out what she meant, before she grabbed the gun from the outstretched hands of one of her bodyguards – one behind her, one beside her, one holding Richard, and one above him – and shot Richard in the throat. He made a loud, gurgling sound before dropping, dead weight, onto the pavement below. The blood pooled and seeped through the stones, Melinda exclaiming in disgust when it almost reached her high heels.

Every single instinct inside of John Reese ignited like live wires. _Do something. Run._

Turning and still holding the gun, Melinda gave him a sickly sweet smile. “I’m very sorry that I had to do that in front of you,” she told him. “Or that I have to kill you. I’m sure you’re a very nice man. You’re very pretty, that’s for sure,” – was he? John Reese really hadn’t had a second to stop and ponder his attractiveness – “But all good things must come to an end, right?”

It was then that he acted.

With an almost animalistic snarl, his body exploded into action, forgetting the new consciousness that he’d adopted. His body acted almost entirely on its own accord, splitting the still healing stitching at his wrist so that his left hand popped off. One hand free, he used it to push himself to his feet and take care of the bodyguard behind him, grabbing the gun from his belt and shooting the rest of the bodyguards before they time had to react.

Finally, he trained the gun on Melinda. She was looking from the hand lying white and lifeless on the pavement to John Reese and the fire in his eyes, the barrel of the gun held frighteningly close to her face. “What… What are you?” she gasped. If John Reese had any knowledge of clichés, he might have found the entire scene a bit comical. Instead, his finger tightened on the trigger.

“I don’t know,” he said, truthfully, and fired.

As soon as he body hit the ground, John Reese’s fingers loosened and the gun clattered to the ground. He could hear sirens in the distance – every instinct screamed for him to get out of there. However, his heart pounded in his chest, and all he could see was the bodies laid out in front of them, blood pooling at their bases. He’d _killed_ them. He’d killed all—

On the other side of the alleyway, a pay phone rang.

Numb, John Reese rose, walking in frankly hurried steps to where he picked up the phone, stuffing his handless wrist into the pocket of his nicely pressed trousers that had been splashed with Richard’s blood at the knees. He pulled the phone off the receiver with his good hand and raised it to his ear. Without even having to say hello, the voice of his creator instructed him, “You need to leave the scene, Mr. Reese.”

It wasn’t “John”. It wasn’t even “Reese”. There was a closeness and a coldness to the title that caused him to stop, reassess. His racing brain came to a stop at the sound of his name being spoken by his creator. “My hand—”

“I can get you another hand, Mr. Reese,” his creator reassured him. Despite the scene that took place earlier – the creature acting against his creator, choking him, running – he seemed calm and merely wanting to help. “Right now, you need to leave the area before the police arrive. They will arrest you, and there’s not much you can explain about the fact that you’re made up of several different people,” There was a dreadful silence on the creature’s end, and the creator said again, “Do you understand me, Mr. Reese? You need to leave. _Now_.”

The urgency in his creator’s voice jolted John Reese into action. He didn’t even bother to tell the creator he was doing as he was told or put the phone back on the receiver, he just dropped the pay phone and broke off into an inconspicuous sprint. He weaved through the crowds of New Yorkers, calming his breathing as he went.

Sirens permeated the air as the creature that was John Reese fled from his murder scene and made his way back into the arms of his creator.     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY FUCK I'M SO SORRY THAT THIS TOOK SO LONG. i got excellent encouragement from talkingtothesky but i literally just did not have the motivation to finish??? the chapter???
> 
> but good news is i finished the series finale for lost the other day so i don't have that entanglement. so i'm just watching poi and crying and writing this fanfic now, apparently. i have all the chapters planned out so it should be a problem from here on in. i sincerely hope you enjoyed!


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